


The Naked Truth

by KaisaSegher



Series: Counting Scars [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Marriage, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-09-25 00:46:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 21,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9794858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaisaSegher/pseuds/KaisaSegher
Summary: For a moment, the room was completely silent except for their breathing. How Sansa wished it would be like that at night, when everybody else was too busy sleeping to bother her with uncountable matters. The rain that had spoiled the wood for the hearths. The hail that had broken the ceiling of one of the glass gardens. The snow that had frozen the water from the well. Apparently, everyone thought that carrying the Stark name made one capable of controlling the weather. Or at least as wise as all the maesters in the country together, and therefore perfectly able to come up with a solution for every problem on earth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry for the hiatus, I hope to be back as regularly as ever and not to disappoint anyone. This takes place after all the works in the series, but directly following The Right Name events.  
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this one!

Sansa jabbed her finger with the small needle, trying as hard as she could not to swear and not to stain the soft cotton on her lap with blood. Of course she could not embroil anymore, not when she was not able to see as well as before. Her eyelids were too heavy, her head too fuzzy from the lack of sleep in the past few nights.

He was her son, and she loved him more than she thought she could ever love someone. He was the most precious thing she had, and Sansa thanked the gods every day that he had arrived in this world as smoothly as possible, as perfect as she had only dreamed of.

But he would not let her sleep. Ever since he had drawn his first breath, little Robb spent his nights crying every couple of hours, keeping her and Jon awake all night. Almost every night.

Sometimes he was scared of being alone in his crib, and that they solved in a heartbeat, bringing the baby to their bed and letting him sleep cradled between them. Sometimes he was hungry, and she had to be awake for as long as he was. Sometimes he needed to be changed, and that was Jon’s responsibility, since he could not feed the baby. And sometimes she swore Robb was just bored and drew some pleasure out of keeping his parents awake, for nothing in this world could calm him down.

Five moons. Five moons had passed already, and things were not improving as everyone around Sansa had promised her.

It will pass. Babies do not sleep all night when they are so little, then they calm down.

Lies. All terrible lies.

She jabbed her finger again, swearing this time. It was useless. Sansa sighed and laid her work in the basket at her feet, giving up. Oh well, it would have been a lovely tiny tunic, but perhaps her son did not deserve it after all.

“You’re tired again, m’lady,” Alys observed.

As sharp as ever.

Although Sansa could not help the acute envy that pierced her chest as the girl’s eyes remained completely focused on the delicate blue flowers she was embroidering into an even more delicate linen sheet. She was getting married in less than a moon. To that redheaded man. What was his name again?

Oh, great, now her memory was gone, too.

Perfect.

“I am,” Sansa answered, biting her tongue so as not to make the girl pay for Sansa’s own misery. “Your work looks beautiful, by the way.”

“Does it?” Alys asked, grinning. “I tried, I really tried, but I’m not as good as you, m’lady, I’m afraid.”

“Believe me, Alys. I would wish I was half as good as you right now.”

* * *

“Now he is sleeping!” Sansa complained, looking at the small bundle in the basket, next to the window.

“I know. I know…” Jon said, laying his head on his desk. By the look on his face Sansa could swear he was thinking about hitting it with his forehead until he lost consciousness. “Now, with everyone shouting in the corridors, running above our heads, clashing training swords in the courtyard, the little lord decides it is just the right time for his long deserved nap.”

Sansa let herself sank to the chair in front of Jon, propping her chin lazily on her hand. If her lady mother, or worst, Septa Mordane, saw her now all their hairs would surely go grey from shock.

“But that does not mean we do not love him, right?” she asked Jon, for she was starting to doubt even that.

Everyone always told the best parts about having a baby. How good they smelt. How adorable they looked while sucking their fingers. How pretty their fat cheeks were. However, no one ever talked about the bad parts. Babies were boring. They did nothing but sleep, and eat, and wet their clothes. And cry. Cry all the time, for the biggest absurdity in this world.

“I think it has nothing to do with it,” Jon murmured, as if he had lost the strength to talk as well, his words muffled against the oak wood. “When I think I might be a bad father because I want nothing more than a good night’s sleep, just for once, I remind myself I would gladly die for him and I think that is quite enough.”

“Oh, gods, I think I will use that one as well,” Sansa said, her face having fallen until her palm was now against her cheek and she could barely move her mouth. “Do not get me wrong, I love him. I truly do. There is nothing I would not do to protect him from all the things wrong with this world. But lately I just want some rest.”

Jon grunted in approval.

“I mean, we are not that bad, are we?” Sansa continued. “He is growing and he is fat. I mean, babies are supposed to be fat, are they not?”

“I have not seen many babies this last few years, aside from little Sam,” Jon answered, raising his head and smirking. “But I remember you were fat enough as a child.”

Sansa straightened her back, as if an arrow had hit her. She grabbed some crumpled piece of paper from the desk and threw it to his face. Jon dodged it just in time, laughing loudly.

“At least I never was half as daft as you were. As you still are,” she scolded, pretending to be cross at him. “I think you might need a good nap to regain your wits.”

“I am not even going to argue with you about that.”

For a moment, the room was completely silent except for their breathing. How Sansa wished it would be like that at night, when everybody else was too busy sleeping to bother her with uncountable matters. The rain that had spoiled the wood for the hearths. The hail that had broken the ceiling of one of the glass gardens. The snow that had frozen the water from the well.

Apparently, everyone thought that carrying the Stark name made one capable of controlling the weather. Or at least as wise as all the maesters in the country together, and therefore perfectly able to come up with a solution for every problem on earth.

But at least for this moment everything was silent.

“I have some news you will not like.”

And then Jon had to open his mouth again.

Sansa leaned back on the chair again, as if she was trying to hold on to something while he told her what he had been hiding from her.

“A raven arrived this morning,” he said, his shoulders perfectly square, but his brows knitted together as he looked at her as expectantly as she was surely looking at him. That could not be good, if he feared her reaction. “From King’s Landing.”

“What does she want now?” Sansa cut sharply.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry for being so slow to update this time. I hope it will get better eventually.  
> Anyway, hope you enjoy another chapter of this two!

“She wants to see the glass gardens for herself.”

Sansa almost sighed in release. Almost. For a moment she had thought the queen wanted Jon to go to King’s Landing and that was most certainly out of question. But then she recalled the last time a ruler of the Seven Kingdoms had come to Winterfell and she chilled to the bone.

“I really doubt that is all she wants, Jon,” Sansa scoffed.

Jon propped his head on the palm of his hand, his eyes just as lost as they were the day they had returned to Winterfell.

“I doubt that too. But you do not say no to a queen. And certainly not to this one,” he murmured, his voice heavy with sadness.

Silence. Sansa’s heart raced in her chest, hammering insistently against her ribs. She took a look at Robb, gently sucking on his thumb, still fast asleep.

No. The Dragon Queen would not dare.

“She needs an heir.”

Sansa knew she was stating the obvious. The queen had been married for longer than Jon and Sansa, to some Tyrell the Queen of Thorns had swiftly discovered somewhere as soon as it was clear Daenerys had won the war. And with each moon turn, and with no announcement about a coming heir to the kingdom, Sansa grew more anxious.

Anxious for the little boy, sleeping peacefully under his blanket, still blissfully unware about the web of politics that already surround him. For the kingdom had no heir, but the North did. And the queen had no family, but Jon was her kin.

“I will not allow her, if that is what you are afraid of. I swear it, and I will swear it before a heart tree if needed be,” Jon promised, his fist stopping mere inches from the table, afraid to wake up Robb.

Sansa reached for his hand and gently stroked his wrist, forcing a smile. Her shoulders seamed to relax somewhat at his heated words.

“I know, dear. I know you will not, just as much as I would not let her take any of you away from me,” she said, trying to appease him.

Jon brought her fingers to his lips and kissed her knuckles, his beard softly tickling her skin.

“It is not fair, you know?” Sansa remarked, her eyes filling with tears and her voice starting to break. “Robb is still so small. I mean, he cannot even sit down. And everyone is already making plans about him.”

“I know. But we will not let them, love,” Jon said, smiling as he opened his arms. “Now come here and do not think about it anymore.”

Sansa obliged, surrounding the table and sitting on his lap, her arms around his neck. She hid her face on Jon’s shoulder to muffle her sobs as he combed her hair with his fingers, his lips planting light kisses on her temple.

“She just wants to see the gardens, there is no need to think ahead of that,” he whispered. “She is just human, after all. She cannot be that selfish, not after she was bought and sold as child herself.”

Sansa raised her head and brushed her lips against his, the taste of Jon’s mouth mingling with the salt of her tears.

He was right. He had to be right. The queen would understand. The queen would not even ask them. After all, she had been generous enough to let them marry each other, even when it was against her wishes. Perhaps she would be coherent with that decision, and not take their son away from them. Or perhaps she did anyway, but not just yet. What use had a queen for a baby?

Or maybe, just maybe, she just wanted to see the gardens after all. See the great work the Northmen had made. That wild idea that might save everyone from starving during the long winter.

Jon’s tongue gently rubbed against her lips, and she let it in, allowing herself to forget all her problems at least for some blissful moment. Sansa shifted on his lap so she could straddle him, her knees digging on the hard wood of his chair. She pressed her chest against his, and for a heartbeat she thought about what would happen if she just disappeared inside him, shielded from everything around her.

Sansa was home. Every time she was in Jon’s arms she was home. No matter how many awful things she had gone through, how many challenges still awaited ahead of her, every time she felt his body against hers, his heartbeat matching her own, his smell filling her nostrils, she knew nothing could bring her down ever again. She was not weak anymore. She was not alone anymore. They had each other. And like Sansa had not let anyone take Jon away from her, she would not let anyone get their dirty claws on Robb either.

Her fingers tangled on his hair as she angled her head, her tongue matching every movement of his. Jon grabbed her by the waist and pulled her even closer to him, his fingers digging on her flesh.

“Gods, I miss you,” He panted as soon as they parted for air, his forehead against hers and his eyelids too heavy to open. “But it feels so… Odd, I guess. He is right here.”

“I miss you too. It has been too long,” Sansa agreed as she turned to her son, acutely aware of his presence now. “I will take Robb to Alys, I am sure she will not mind.”

It had been too long indeed. After Robb had been born it seemed they had no time for each other anymore. And when they did most of the times both of them were too tired. Most nights Sansa was more than happy to just feel Jon’s body against hers as she drifted to sleep for a few hours before Robb started to cry again.

Jon smiled, his fingers drawing lazy circles on the small of her back.

“You do that. You take him to Alys and make up some excuse,” he agreed.

She stood up and crossed the room, gently lifting Robb’s basket and praying to all the gods she could think of that he would keep sleeping for at least another hour.

“I will be back in a moment, I promise,” Sansa said, giving Jon a quick kiss as he opened the door for her. “I will tell her that we really need to discuss a great matter.”

“Yes, you tell her something like that. I am sure you still have some excuses left from before we were married,” Jon joked as she was leaving.


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh, thank the gods!” Jon shouted, snatching her as soon as she entered the study again and covering her mouth with his own. “I thought you were not coming anymore.”

Sansa giggled, running her hands through his hair, the smooth tresses caressing her fingers as Jon’s hands slid up and down her back, seemingly with no particular intent.

“Did I ever disappoint you, dear?” she asked, freeing herself from the cage of his arms.

Jon’s brow furrowed, his dark eyes filled with confusion. Sansa smirked, going around him until she had her bottom against his desk. She loved to tease him. To see that bewildered expression on his face, as if someone had promised him the most precious treasures on earth just to steal them away on the last moment.

“No, love, you never did,” he gulped, closing the distance between them in a few long strides and gently cupping her face. “You never do.”

Sansa planted her palms on the desk and raised herself until she was sitting on top of it, the sun that filtered through the window warming her back. However, she did not need it. She had decided long ago that there was nothing better to chase away the cold than her husband’s skin against her own. And it was an utter shame that she was not allowed to have him this close more often.

Sometimes she thought not really much had changed after they had exchanged their vows in the Godswood. Sansa had hoped, every night she had spent with him before that, that after they were married they could be with each other as much as they wanted. Unfortunately, it had not been so. They were responsible adults, bounded by many duties, and most of the time they were reduced to steal kisses in dark corridors the same way as before. At least by night they were free to be together, but even that had changed after Robb’s birth.

“I miss you, Sansa,” Jon whispered, his mouth against her ear as his fingers climbed her neck, scratching her scalp below her braid.

“I know, dear, I know,” she hushed him, turning her head so she could kiss him again, harder this time.

There was nothing sweeter than him. She could taste the ripest fruits, the sweetest cakes, the best wine in the world, and still nothing would taste as sweet as Jon. Her teeth scraped his lower lip, receive a groan that rumbled all over Jon’s chest in return. She sucked on his lip, as if to ease some of the pain, but that only made him growl even louder.

“You are going to frighten everyone that hears you, Lord Snow,” she reprimanded, brushing her soft cheek against his beard, her hand cupping the back of his neck.

“I could not care less,” he groaned, annoyed, the tip of his finger drawing the curve of her breasts just above her neckline. “Let them know that I miss my wife. And I hope that, if they do hear us, they all feel guilty for keeping their lady away from me.”

Sansa smiled, overly pleased with his words. Her heart swelled with pride every time Jon confirmed that he wanted her just as much as she wanted him, no matter for how long they had been together. She would never grew tired of hearing him say it.

“Then, my love, let us not waste any more time, shall we?” she suggested, reaching for the hem of her dress and gathering her skirts at her waist.

Jon gulped once, twice. Sansa giggled again, reaching for the front of his doublet.

“Oh, dear Jon, what will I do with you?” she asked, shaking her head and undoing the first button. “It is not like you have never seen my legs, is not that so?”

He seized her ankle, his long fingers sliding up her silk stoking until he reached the back of her knee. Sansa shivered as he delicately peeled the first stoking out or her, the tips of his fingers brushing against her skin. She wet her lips with her tongue, her mouth suddenly dry.

It still amazed her how Jon could make her nervous with the simplest gestures.

“I have seen them many times before,” he agreed, focussing his attention on the other leg now. “And every time I see them again they just remind me of how I would be more than happy to die between them.”

Sansa felt her face burn. Jon said the silliest things and how they pleased her so much still remained a complete mystery. Perhaps it was because every men that was too good with his words had betrayed her in every way she thought possible and even some more she never dreamed of. Jon’s awkwardness at first and then his honesty made her feel like she was stepping on solid ground, not just a girls dreams made of smoke.

Jon’s lips found hers, his tongue slipping inside her mouth without any resistance. Sansa tried to return him as much as possible, her tongue stroking and sucking his, as she desperately attempted to continue undressing him.

“Just take it off already!” she demanded, unable to unbutton his doublet, her hands between their bodies without enough space for the task.

“You just have to ask, love,” Jon said, taking a step back and quickly undoing all the buttons and tossing his doublet to the side. “You know I cannot say no to you.”

Nor could she to him. There was nothing Jon would ask of her that she would not gladly do. Although, in her opinion, he did not asked for nearly half of what he was due. He seemed more than happy to just take whatever she offered, and most of the time that was perfectly fine.

“Your shirt too,” she ordered, leaning back on her hands.

“That hardly seems fair, Lady Stark,” he remark, grabbing the hem of his shirt and shaking his head. “You are fully dressed yourself.”

“It is because you did not finish with my stockings.”

She lifted her leg and dug her foot on his belly, urging him to complete his work. Jon knelt before her, brushing his lips just above the spot at her thigh where the stocking ended. Sansa bit her lip, trying to hold back a whimper.

“This are quite pretty,” Jon said, his fingers tracing the hem.

“No,” Sansa scoffed, crossing her arms at her chest. “You did not like my ugly stockings, you cannot enjoy these.”

Jon laughed.

“Fair enough, love,” he agreed, baring her leg in a swift motion.

Sansa leaned forward, clasping the collar of his shirt and pushing him up, until he was levelled with her face.

“Perhaps we should stop wasting time, dear,” she reminded him, kissing him as her hand slid below his shirt and inside his breeches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, I know! But I'll try to be good and update tomorrow, okay?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope this is not complete rubbish.

“Oh, gods…” Jon sighed, bucking against her hand, his weight supported by his palms on the table so he was leaning over her.

Sansa smirked. Jon had always been so calm, so cautious, so honourable. Until the moment Sansa had realised she was capable of ruining him, and had decided to do so. He was still gentle and kind to her, most of the time, but now she knew that he could go mad as well, particularly when she teased him.

“Now, now, dear,” she whispered on his ear, her fingers running up and down his neck, gently stroking his hair on their way. Jon threw his head back and bit his lip, and Sansa could feel his muscles tense under her touch. “Did you really miss me?”

Jon simply nodded, suddenly unable to speak as Sansa wrapped her fingers around his cock and started to pump slowly. She bit his jaw, his beard scratching her soft lips, not waiting for a proper answer. A warm shiver shook her body, like someone had just poured a bucket of hot water over her head. She wanted him. She wanted him so much that she could swear her flesh was aching from need.

“Could you please untie your breeches for me, Jon?” she asked softly, her free hand rubbing his strong arm. “My hands are a little occupied at the moment, dear.”

He seemed to awake from whatever daydream he was having, straightening his back with a jolt and obeying her in a heartbeat, his breeches pooling at his ankles before Sansa could even think about asking him again.

“Thank you, dear,” Sansa said, resuming her motions. Jon returned just as quickly to his previous state, his eyes screwed shut as another groan resonated through the room. “It was getting uncomfortable.”

“Good gods, love…” he panted “I would never use that word to… describe what you are doing right now…”

Sansa laughed, her lips on his neck making him shiver.

“Well, I learned from the best,” she jested, gently biting his pulse and making him groan again.

It was the most beautiful thing, having him in a mess of incoherent noises and half-panted words, just because of her. Just because of her small hand wrapped around his erection. Just because of her lips brushing against his skin.

Sansa released him from her grip, and Jon rewarded her with a frustrated whimper, resting his forehead against hers. She cupped his cheek, trying to appease him, her other hand grabbing the hem of her dress again.

“I need you to touch me, Jon,” she muttered, leaning back on her elbows and skimming one of her legs against his thigh, resting her foot on the small of his back. “Please.”

“You don’t need to beg, Sansa,” he said, his fingers brushing her inner thigh until they found her folds.

She gasped as Jon painfully slowly drew small circles around her nub. Sansa seized his wrist, urging him to increase his pace, for although perhaps she was not ready yet for him they did not have much time to loose. And she was growing impatient.

Jon slid one finger inside her, twisting it a bit so he could reach the spot he knew would make her melt around him. Sansa rolled her eyes and thrusted her hips to meet his finger, her head starting to spin.

“And you, Sansa?” he called, adding another finger and forcing a low moan out of her lips. “Did you miss me?”

She pushed him down by the neck and kissed him passionately, a mess of lips and teeth and tongue. How could he ask her that? How could he even doubt that?

But too soon Jon removed his hand from her, perhaps trying to get some revenge after she had done the same to him. Sansa leaned back again and screw her eyes shut, groaning with frustration and fighting back the urge to simply punch him.

Jon was not a man who enjoyed playing little games, and that was a part of his character that Sansa truly appreciated. In a heartbeat she felt Jon’s hand one her hip and his cock rubbing against her wet folds.

“If I hurt you, you have to tell me, Sansa,” he said, his thumb gently caressing her hip. “It has been a while, after all.”

“You won’t hurt me, dear, I promise.”

She was more than ready for him. And he had never hurt her before, there was no reason to believe he would start now.

With one swift thrust Jon sheathed himself fully on her heat, they both gasping with surprise. He was right, it had been a while and it felt strange having him, all of him, inside her once again.

But it was not painful, nor even unpleasant, in the least. Although, after a few moments to breath, Sansa noticed he was not moving. She dug her heels on his calves, urging him on, at the same time she rotated her hips.

Jon threw his head back, a low growl resonating through his body and Sansa could swear that by now all Winterfell knew what “important matters” their lady and their lord were discussing on that study. But as soon as Jon started to thrust inside her Sansa moaned so loudly she thought she might break her throat.

“Are you all right?” Jon asked, though he did not stop.

Sansa could not think of anything else than his cock in and out of her, and to remind herself to move her hips in time with his thrusts. How she gathered enough wit to answer him was a complete mystery.

“It is more than all right, dear…” she gasped. “Please, Jon, don’t stop!”

“I was not planning to,” he panted, both his hands gripping her hips now and pushing her even more against him. “Gods, it’s too good, Sansa!”

Indeed, it was too good…

She felt her peak coming, the tension on her limbs building up, the back of her head tingling until she could not ignore it anymore. But when Jon grabbed her buttocks and angled her body just so she could swear she saw white lights behind her eyes as a loud whine filled the room, her body shivering around Jon.

He followed her soon enough, his large fingers digging on her skin in a way Sansa knew would leave some bruises for tomorrow and his growl echoing through the stone walls. Sansa sat up, holding him in her arms, his hot breath tickling the hollow of her neck as he rode the last waves of pleasure.

They stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity, Jon shivering against her, Sansa’s legs shaking as she slowly freed her husband from their grip. He kissed her then, perhaps to remind himself they were still alive after all. But if they were not, Sansa realised she would not care that much. If this was what came after death than she would gladly welcome it.

“For all the gods…” he whispered, still panting. “I think I need to sit down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now you can't complain about the teasing anymore!


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa sat up, her back complaining almost immediately, shortly followed by her rear and her thighs, weary of holding Jon in place. She hissed, but tried to focus the least she could on her sore flesh and more on controlling her breath and heartbeat again.

She looked down at Jon, sprawled on the floor with his breaches still around his ankles, running his hand through his hair, his chest heaving as if there was not enough air in the room to keep him alive. Sansa chuckled.

“What?” he asked her harshly, raising his eyebrows. “Am I funny now?”

“No. No!” she assured him, covering her mouth to muffle her laughter. “You are not funny dear, you just look funny, that’s all. Now, do you have something that I can clean myself with?”

Jon pulled up his breeches and searched in his pockets, finding a linen handkerchief with something embroidered on it and throwing it at her. Sansa held it to her eyes, thoroughly examining it before doing anything. A direwolf. A silver direwolf. The one she had embroidered just last week, a gift for his nameday.

“You cannot be serious. I am not using this!” she snapped at him, throwing the handkerchief right back at him.

“What is wrong with it? It is quite pretty, I think,” Jon said, shrugging.

Sansa stood up and smoothed her skirts down, giving up. She would wash as soon as she reached her changers, it was not that much of a problem.

“Sometimes you are so daft, Jon!” she shouted, throwing her hands in the air. Jon looked at her, puzzled, still sat on the floor. “Do you know how much I had to work to make it? And you just throw it at me to clean up your mess!”

Jon gulped, perhaps understanding at last what he had done. He reached for her hand and pushed Sansa into his lap. She herself was surprise she did not put up that much of a fight.

“I am sorry, I truly am,” he apologized, smoothing her back and kissing her shoulder. That worked to some degree. “I just… I still cannot think properly every time my too beautiful wife lifts her skirts.”

“Oh, now it is my fault?” Sansa scolded, although she was not angry anymore. She had discovered a while ago that although she had the ability to stay mad at him for the silliest of things it was much easier for her to just let them pass. What good would come from chastising him over a handkerchief? She had asked for something to clean herself and he had reacted accordingly.

“Everything. Everything is your fault, Lady Stark. Coming here, seducing your innocent husband while he is just doing his job,” Jon declared, cupping her cheek. But then something captured his attention, and his eyes drifted from hers. “Gods, we did quite a mess, did we not?”

Sansa followed his gaze, looking first at the floor, then at the table. There were papers scattered all over the stone floor, some crumpled, some simply torn and stained by their feet. The inkpot tumbled on the table, ink dripping to the side and pooling just few steps away from them.

“I hope those were not important,” Sansa said, her eyebrows almost disappearing behind her hair.

“They were, I am afraid,” Jon answered, shaking his head. “But I will deal with that latter. I had more urgent matters to attend to, such as my wife.”

* * *

Sansa rested her hand on his arm, pulling him to her as they walked down the corridors that led to their chambers. Sometimes Sansa thought it would have been more practical if the study was closer to them. But then again, with Jon working so close to their bed perhaps the administration of the castle would be frozen forever. And about that her husband was totally right. At least part of it could be blamed on her.

She recalled when they had to hide and lie to everyone to be together, and relished on the heat of his skin that radiated to her own, now that they were Lady and Lord of Winterfell and no one dared to raise an eyebrow any time they walked through the castle grounds holding hands, or with Jon’s hand around her waist. Not even when they shared a quick kiss when they sat for breakfast, or when they wished each other good-night when one of them was going to bed before the other.

It was in the small things, the same things Jon had offered her that day on the balcony overlooking the men training in the courtyard. The ones that Sansa had not dared to dream of for so long. The ones that made her think that perhaps there was still some justice in this world, some higher power that had brought them together and had let them be happy with each other.

But now the Dragon Queen threatened to take it all away.

Sansa had dreaded for some time that the queen’s consent to her marriage perhaps hid some trap. The queen was not one to simply accept other people’s reasons and let them do as they pleased. Jon had believed she was. Sansa had hoped and prayed she was. But in the end both of them had been wrong.

Well, she had faced her husband’s aunt once, she could well face her twice. Maybe that was stretching her luck, but one thing was more than certain to Sansa: Jon would not leave her side, and neither would her son.

As they reached their chambers, Sansa tried to push those thoughts away. She was happy now, she might as well enjoy it and worry later.

Jon helped her unlace her dress, his fingers brushing tenderly against her skin from time to time. That always helped her forget her cares, his hands on her skin, his warm breath against her neck as he slid her dress down her body. Her blood was heating again. Perhaps she had not been sated as she thought she had.

But then again, it was Jon. As satisfied as she might feel, it was never enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, this is not the last of it, don't worry.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for this chapter where nothing really happens but I just needed a cute loving family moment, although a little angsty

He was the best thing there was about here. Jon too, but Jon was another matter entirely. For her son, she would have brought the moon and the stars from the sky if that meant he would always be this happy. If that meant Robb would always enjoy a safe and carefree life that had been stolen from her.

Sansa took him in her arms and held him against her hip. He was so heavy now, looking nothing like the small purple baby that had come to this world a rainy afternoon, screaming at the top of his lungs. He was starting to look like Jon, even though he denied it. He would look more like a Stark than she ever did, no matter how many direwolves she had emblazed on her cloaks or how many blue and grey dresses she wore. No one could question Robb was a Stark, and that might be what would save him from the queen’s claws in the end.

Robb instinctively grabbed the front of her dress, twisting his head around as if he was trying to check that everything was still in place, even though his mother had picked him up from his basket. Lemon and Ghost, who had been guarding the baby like he was part of their small pack until Sansa came to the room, stood up at the same time and run to the door, too eager to be freed of their unspoken duties.

“Those two already declared him one of his own,” Jon said, caressing his son’s dark curls. Robb giggled, lifting his eyes as he tried to look at his father.

“He is not a wolf,” Sansa scoffed, holding Robb even tighter. He started to twist in her arms, attempting to free himself. “He is my son.”

“I know, mine too,” Jon jested, draping his arm around Sansa’s shoulders.

“Da-da,” Robb said. Or it could have been anything else, really, any word in any language that could be mistaken by that incoherent babbling that he seemed to like so much lately. However, Sansa saw how Jon’s eyes filled with tears all the same.

“See, even him agrees with me!” he exclaimed, touching the baby’s nose with the tip of his finger, making him blink and then laugh wildly.

“Perfect! Now he is excited and it will take me ages to lull him,” Sansa scolded, although she was not truly angry. She could not be, even if she tried or if she wanted to. She loved them both too much, and every time the three of them were together, especially in the glass gardens where it seemed like winter would never come, she really believe that she was fortunate after all.

“Hey, half the times I am the one who has to calm him!” Jon argued, poking Robb’s nose again. Then his arm tensed around her and his tone changed entirely. “We have to answer the queen, love.”

Sansa sighed slowly, trying to gather enough energy to say what she had to. Not what she wished to say, what she felt was the truth. That the queen was not welcome at Winterfell. That Jon, Robb and the North were Sansa’s, and not something the queen could toy around with like she had done with almost half of Essos.

Winterfell was her home. Jon and Robb were her home. It had been hard enough to build, it had been hard enough to mend all the broken pieces and create something almost completely new, something that felt right. No one would take that away.

But she was not a reckless woman. Time had taught her to always know the ground before she put her foot down, lest it crumble below her and swallow her whole. So when she finally spoke she did so as Lady Stark, not as Sansa.

“Tell her we will be more than glad to receive her. That Winterfell will be her home for as long as she wishes it.”

* * *

Another night without sleeping. Robb had spent most of it crying again, though this time Jon had found out that if he lit the candle by his son’s crib he got quieter. However, as soon as Jon reached the bed, Robb had started babbling at the ceiling and that had entertained him most of the night. Sansa had tried to hush him, singing softly with her voice heavy from sleep. She had almost exhausted every lullaby in her repertoire when Robb’s eyelids seemed like they were getting heavier, so she had put him in his crib again. But as soon as she rested her head on the pillow, the baby had started blathering again, claiming her attention once more.

“Just bring him here already,” Sansa mumbled, hiding her head below the pillow. “At least we will not have to get up to check on him.”

Jon slumped to his son again, his hands almost dragging through the floor. He lowered him next to Sansa and she covered him with her arms. If he had let her sleep she would relish on the feeling of his tiny warm body against her chest. Her heart would fill with joy and love hearing his quiet breath as he dreamed of happy things. Her muscles would relax just by smelling the sweet scent of his tiny curls. But she was tired, so she settled for just being glad he was quieter now and that he was healthy and all of those things mothers are supposed to feel thankful for.

Jon rolled to his side and draped his arm around them both, his dark eyes half hidden behind his hair, puffy from weariness. But somehow he had found in himself the strength to smile at her and to kiss her forehead.

“I love you,” he whispered, his face impossibly soft in the dim light of the small candle. “Both of you. I never thought… I never thought that was possible.”

“Me neither,” Sansa murmured back, caressing his leg with her foot. “Not after everything we have been through.”

“Sansa,” Jon called, eyeing the baby now quietly sleeping in his wife’s arms. He hesitated for a moment, and she brushed her lips against his to encourage him. “You know I would do everything for you. Anything to keep you both away from harm.”

“I know, Jon. I never doubted it,” she assured him.

“It is just… She is my aunt, and she is the queen…”

He was hesitant again. Sansa did not push him any further.

“But I love you. You,” he repeated.

“I love you too, Jon. I thought we had already established that a long time ago,” she said, her eyes feeling heavy as she wished that conversation would end as soon as possible.

“No, you are not understanding me. I made a vow. I made a vow before the heart tree, and I made a vow the day you told me you were with child. That I would always shield you from harm,” he whispered so quietly Sansa could barely hear him. “I intend to keep that vow.”

Sansa closed her eyes, her nose itching with the tears threating to fall down her face. He had not told her anything she was not completely sure of already. She knew, in her heart, that Jon would never let them down. He had brought her back from her misery when she needed the most. He had been patient and caring, healing her wounds one by one until all that was left were old scars that would never bleed again. But yet, hearing him say those words for the first time had struck something inside her chest.

“I know, dear,” she told him, swallowing down her tears and stroking his beard. She was happy, he would not see her cry. “I always knew. And I have vows of my own that I intend to keep. That is why I will receive her as if she was my kin. As if she was a dear sister. To protect you both. To keep you safe.”

Jon sighed, leaning against her touch.

“She just wants to see the gardens. We are worrying to much about this,” Jon said, shrugging.

“I hope you are right. But it is late and Robb is finally asleep, it seems,”

He kissed her goodnight. Before Sansa could notice, her eyes had closed and she had drifted peacefully to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hmm, I'm sorry I'm being too mean with Daenerys, but I would like to remind everyone that this is just how I think Sansa would think about her, bearing in mind that they have never met. So to Sansa, someone that has seen her loved ones being taken away from her on a whim, the queen is just this intimidating woman that conquered two continents because she wanted and she could and now Sansa just fears that she will take away the happiness she had worked so hard for. So I'd like to say I'm sorry to all the Dany's fans out there.  
> Anyway, your comments are more than welcome, as ever.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, some happy family sweetness!

“Now, sweetie, come here,” she called, crouching and opening his arms to welcome her son.

Robb had learnt to crawl a moon ago, and now that seemed to be the most interesting thing in his life. Also, everything within his reach, every book, every glass, every jar, almost every trinket in the castle had to be moved to the upper shelves or higher tables, for he was too keen to explore anything he could get his hands on. Most of the times exploring meant smashing it on the floor or putting it in his mouth, both behaviour equally reproachable by Sansa’s standards.

One small hand in front of the other, his body twisting left and right like he was a little snake. Sometimes he was too excited and ended up with his chin on the floor, though he simply ignored those minor incidents and carried on to his target.

Sansa lifted Robb in her arms as soon as he reached her, giggling and shouting, as if he had conquered the most important empire on earth. She gently kissed the top of his head, inhaling the soft scent of lavender in his hair. But that moment lasted only a heartbeat, Robb twisting and turning to free himself of her and return to the floor.

“To daddy now, Robb,” said Jon, sat against the wall, his legs spread as he leaned forward to invite his son.

“This is far more entertaining than watching you spare in the courtyard!” Sansa laughed, throwing her head back.

“That’s my boy!” Jon shouted out, grabbing Robb as soon as he reached him and throwing him in the air. The baby laughed again. Everything made him laugh, lately.

Sansa smiled, looking at the two of them, and she could not decide who was the happiest. Maybe it was her, because she was fortunate enough to watch them. With her heart warm, she thought that, when she was old and had forgotten her own name, she would always recall that moment of pure happiness.

“We should expect her tomorrow, should we not?” she asked, feeling guilty for calling Jon back to reality.

He inhaled, sitting Robb on his knee.

“Yes, that is true. If everything goes as planned the queen will arrive tomorrow in the afternoon.”

“And if everything goes as planned we will show her the gardens and then she will leave, nothing more?” Sansa tried, crossing her arms at her chest.

Robb freed himself from Jon’s grip and started crawling towards Sansa again.

“Last time she wrote to me she said she wanted to visit a handful of houses in the North. I believe she will go to Hornwood, then Dreadfort, Karhold… Perhaps the Wall, as well,” Jon told her, crossing his arms too and resting his head against the stone wall behind him.

For a moment, everything was silent, except for the soft rustling of Robb’s clothes as he moved across the room and the crackling of the fire. Outside, the sun shined as brightly as it could just before winter, the snow sparkling as if made of an infinity of tiny crystals. But in those chambers there were just the three of them, and for a moment Sansa wished that there was not another world outside as she snatched Robb again and pressed him to her chest.

“I think she is trying to do the best she can,” Jon added, shrugging. “She does not know the country, she does not know the people, and I think she is trying to correct that.”

“Or that is what she says,” Sansa corrected.

* * *

Sansa already knew the queen was about as old as Jon. Sansa already knew the queen was shorter than herself. Sansa already knew that she would be young and pretty. But somehow she had expected her to look more intimidating. Taller, stronger, rougher. Something that set her apart from everyone else.

However, as soon as Queen Daenerys dismounted from her horse, Sansa found out nothing about her was frightening in the least, if she forgot her dragons and her army and that she could not burn.

She was just a woman, after all. A short, slightly chubby woman, with silver-blond hair collected in an infinite amount of braids, wide violet eyes and her small frame covered in layers and layers of leather.

A young man, probably about the queen’s age, to Sansa’s surprise, rode right behind her. His resemblance to Ser Loras Tyrell was extraordinary, with the same flowy brown hair, the same full mouth and high cheekbones, even the same golden eyes.

So that must be the queen’s husband.

On what felt like a lifetime ago Sansa might have found him handsome, just as much as she had thought his cousin to be the epitome of a man’s perfection. She could almost laugh at that thought now. After all, her sister had been right. The Tyrells looked more like pretty women than a proper man. Bearing that in mind, she pressed her side to Jon’s, overly proud with the choice she had made. Her taste in man had surely improved over the years.

And then she was not proud anymore, as Joffrey’s name crossed her mind.

“Is everything all right, love?” Jon whispered, his mouth barely moving. “You are hurting my arm.”

She was gripping him tighter than she was supposed to, her veins filled with anger.

“Oh, dear! I am so sorry!” Sansa excused herself, releasing him and gently brushing her fingers on where she had grasped him.

“I am fine, do not worry,” he assured her, seizing her hand and kissing it. “And all will be well, you will see.”

She hoped so, although she had prepared for the worst, and even Jon had agreed on that. They had left Robb with Jocelyn this time, hidden away in the study, as if the queen could forget about his existence by not laying eyes on him. Although Jon never put it to words, Sansa was sure he was just as terrified as she was, no matter how much he tried to put on that façade of certainty to calm her down.

But she was Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Wearing masks was what she had learned to do best, though she had found out that, at home, she had no use for them anymore. So she stilled her heart and took a step forward.

“Welcome, your grace,” Sansa said, in her clearest, warmest voice, curtseying impeccably as she did almost from the moment she had been born. “I hope you made a safe journey through the Queen’s Road.”

“Thank you, Lady Stark, for your hospitality. Lord Snow,” the queen answered, with an almost imperceptible nod. Jon responded with a bow not even half as good as Sansa’s, but it fulfilled the basic requirements of protocol nonetheless.

“We had a safe journey indeed, though we are happy to be finally here,” she added. She then gestured to her husband, urging him forward. “May I present to you my husband, Lord Lorent Tyrell?”

The man bowed a hundred times more gracefully than Jon, a wide grin on his face.

“Lady Stark,” he greeted taking Sansa’s hand in his and bringing it to his lips.

Young Sansa would have blushed to the roots of her hair with delight. But now she could just feel her blood boil with disgust. She knew when men were trying too hard to please her. She had learn to loathe it, even more when it was the queen’s consort, the same woman threatening her happiness.

“But you must feel exhausted, my queen!” Sansa almost shouted, too eager to free herself from them. “Alys, could you show Her Grace to her chambers?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you have any problem with this story being longer than the previous ones?  
> Also, feel free to send suggestions or any ideas for another fic!  
> And thank you so so so so much for your kind comments :)


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa started to fight with the laces of her bodice, pushing them perhaps too harshly. She was angry. Furious. How dared they? How dared she? How dared the queen bring such a horde of servants, counsellors, guards, soldiers? Just like Cersei. Just like Cersei even though Daenerys had chosen to ride her own horse instead of bringing a carriage bigger than most people’s houses. How were they at Winterfell supposed to find a way to accommodate all of them? Where would everybody sleep when they doubled - no, almost tripled - the castle’s population?

“Stop,” Jon demanded, grabbing her wrists and moving them away from the front of her dress. “Just stop. We both know I am so much better at this than you.”

“You got better with time, dear,” she corrected, smirking. “I recall you were not this deft the first time you undressed me.”

Jon smiled weakly, his grey eyes following his fingers as he undid each tie at her front almost effortlessly.

“What?” Sansa asked him, noticing the sadness in his face. “Dear, look at me.”

She cupped his cheeks with both hands, her fingers caressed by both his beard and his hair. He had seemed impossibly handsome that day, with his hair impeccably combed and a dark blue shirt she had sewn him a moon ago contrasting perfectly with his pale skin and bringing out that weird shade of blue in his eyes.

“Jon, what is wrong?” she insisted, her voice impossibly soft and worried all at once. “What is wrong with you, dear?”

Jon sighed, resuming his task without a word even though he could not see what he was doing, still holding Sansa’s gaze. When he finished Sansa let him go, frustrated he had not spoken to her. He dropped himself on the edge of their bed, his shoulders low and his eyes on the floor.

“Jon, please, that is hardly fair!” Sansa reprimanded, standing in front of him. “I thought we had promised to be honest with each other a long time ago.”

“I know, love, I know…” he groaned, surrounding her waist with his arms and pulling her to him until he rested his head against her belly. “Sorry.”

She tangled her fingers on his hair, gently scratching his scalp like she did when he tried to still his breath after he collapsed on top of her, blissfully exhausted.

This time was different, though. He seemed just as drained, but something had made him lose himself inside his own thoughts. She held him tight against her, proving him she was solid and that he had something that he could cling to.

“I cannot forgive you if I do not know what are you sorry for, Jon,” she mumbled, her thumb stroking behind his ear.

He inhaled deeply and then the air out of his chest in a long breath.

“I am a bastard. I am just a bastard, I am worthless,” he said, his voice breaking.

Sansa frowned as her heart hammered her ribs. That sort of conversation again?

“You are not,” she countered, her voice firm. “You are my husband, you are the father of my son, and you are the man I love. Do not ever say that again.”

Jon released her, letting his arms fall to his sides as he lifted his head to look straight up at Sansa.

“But I am just that. I am just Lady Stark’s husband, I am just Master Robb’s father-“

“Do you think those are small things, the ones you speak about?” Sansa cut him, not wanting to hear any more of that nonsense. The time for Jon’s self-doubt surely had passed long ago. “And why are you saying this just now?”

Jon looked at his feet again.

A heartbeat. Two.

He said nothing.

For a moment she was just staring at him, at the top of his head, as he eyed the floor. Perhaps he was searching for answers on the stones.

“She is my kin and yet she almost did not direct a word at me,” he whispered, still not looking at her.

“Is that what this is about? A queen you did not care about before not speaking to you?” Sansa asked, incredulous, her eyes as wide as they could, her voice a pitch too high. “Jon, she had just arrived. What else would she say? And I thought you were just as eager to get rid of her as I was."

“That’s not it!” he shouted, getting up and away from her. “Don’t you understand?”

Sansa crossed her arms at her chest and lifted her chin.

“No, I clearly do not. Please enlighten me.”

“You are the Lady of Winterfell. You are the Lady Stark. The queen speaks to you because of that. And I am just a bastard who warms your bed,” he spat, turning to face her again.

“But she wrote to you to announce her visit, not me,” Sansa said, trying to keep her voice calm. She would not shout at him. She would not call him idiot for that, even if she thought he was. “Because she is not daft and she knows how important you are. As everyone else, except for you, it seems. And I am not talking just about me or Robb. I am talking about all the North."

She told herself to be patient. Jon had endured most of her own demons, it was only fair she did the same for him. So she walked to him again and grasped his shoulders, brushing her lips against his. He stood still for an instant, perhaps his mind fighting to understand her words. But then his arms had grabbed her waist and pushed her to him, and his tongue was dancing against her own, making her forget why they were arguing in the first place.

They would be late for supper. Seven hells, let the queen wait! Jon needed her, and Sansa had needed him so much more than he had her. He had the right to be heard and cared for. Especially when old insecurities resurfaced.

Sansa still remembered how it had been when they were kids. Even though Lord Eddard had done the best he could to raise Jon as his son, truth was Sansa’s mother had never quite let it be so. Thus Jon ended up excluded from most family gatherings, set at another table when they had guests, forgotten in some corner when Robb or Arya were not around.

Part of it had been Sansa’s fault too. She had never cared for him then. But, gods, how good it had felt to see him again after so long! She could not change the past, but she might as well do her best in the present.

When they parted he had his smile back on his face.

“Now enough of this nonsense,” Sansa declared, kissing him again. “You are nothing less than all the lords and ladies in this world. Than the queen herself! They are the ones that should envy you.”

With her pulse pounding in her head, Sansa unlaced his breeches and pulled them down to his ankles.

“What… What are you doing?” Jon asked, his eyes wide.

“Do you think I am worthless, Jon?” she enquired, kneeling at his feet and gently nibbling his hip. He gasped in surprise.

“No. No, Sansa.” He hesitated, and she looked up at him. His brows were knitted together, as if he was searching for the trap in her question. “You are worth the world to me.”

She grinned, planting small kisses lower and lower at the same pace she felt his breath quicken.

“Now, if I am kneeling at your feet, before you, what do you think that makes you?” she asked.

The only answer she got was a low growl as she gripped his buttocks and took him in her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I needed Jon to have issues of his own...  
> Oh, and thank you so so so much for all your kind comments!


	9. Chapter 9

“Do you feel better now?” Sansa asked, getting up and cleaning her lips to the back of her hand.

Jon was still leaning against the wall, panting heavily, fine beads of sweat gathering at his neck. One would think he was actually feeling worse than before Sansa had almost sucked him dry.

He simply nodded, his mouth wide open, gasping for air.

Sansa pushed his breeches up and tied them again. Planting her hands on his chest, she crawled up along his body, leaving small kisses over his shirt along the way.

“Am I worthless?” she inquired again, before sucking his pulse.

Jon closed his arms around her, pressing her against him until the warmth of his body was the only thing Sansa could think about. How could he not know how precious she was to her? How much she admired him, above all others, above even herself? How could he think so less of himself when she could only think of the gods themselves to be superior to him?

“You are my whole world, love,” he whispered, pulling her chin up for a tender kiss.

Sansa grinned against his mouth. Hearing this from Jon was not the point of her question, but it made her smile all the same. Every time he told her how much she meant to him made a soft glow spread through her body, filling her chest with joy, pride and safety, all at once.

“And do you think I would waste my precious time doing what I just did to a man beneath me, Jon?” she insisted. “Choose your answer wisely, you might insult my judgement.”

She wanted that to be as clear as possible. She had tried saying it to him, explaining it to him. Now she had just shown him, thinking that perhaps that way Jon’s thick head would wrap around the notion that he was no less than anyone else.

Sansa had him trapped, and Jon knew it too. He sighed and rested his chin on top of her head, lowering his hands to the small of her back. Sansa wrapped her arms around Jon’s waist, hugging him back.

“I think you are right as ever, Lady Stark,” he said, a tiny note of amusement in his voice. His hands started to slide through her sides, one of them slipping inside the open front of her dress. “Now, I think it is your turn.”

As much as Sansa wanted to let his touch make her forget everything, she forced herself to grab his wrist and push it away. They had other matters to attend to, and she hated the queen even more for forcing her to lose a rare chance for being with her husband.

“The queen must be awaiting us already, dear,” she told him, seeing the puzzled look on his face. “There will be time for that later.”

“Later we will have Robb as well,” he reminded her.

Sansa shook her head as she finished undressing. Jon was watching her intently, eyes wide and dark, perhaps still hoping she would change her mind. But then she stepped into her lavender dress and he resigned himself to helping her tying it at her back.

“Do not worry, dear,” she said, pulling her hair to one shoulder, taking it out of Jon’s way. “We will find a way. We always did.”

* * *

"Are you pleased with your lodgings, your grace?” Sansa asked, between bites of pheasant.

She tried to mask her annoyance.

Masks. Masks again, when she had not needed them for so long.

But the queen was sitting on Sansa’s chair with Sansa herself by her right, on Jon’s place, and although Sansa was not pleased in the least that was what protocol demanded and she had to pretend everything was just fine.

It was not. Jon was sitting exactly two chairs away from her, next to Lord Lorent, and that was too far away if they both intended to navigate smoothly through the storm the queen had prepared for them.

“We both are most pleased, Lady Stark,” the queen answered, smiling. “And everyone has welcomed us with such warmth one would doubt that winter is actually coming.”

Daenerys Targaryen was better at this game than Cersei Lannister. At least she was far better at lying to gain Sansa’s trust.

“Jon told me you were most keen on seeing the glass gardens, your grace. Perhaps we will have time for that in the morrow?” Sansa suggested, wanting to sooth her heart as soon as possible.

That was it. Showing the gardens to the queen and then send her, her smooth-faced husband and the horde of servants on their way. The North was big enough, and they had so much to see. Spending more than two or three days at Winterfell would surely be a waste of their time, after all.

“But of course, we will have plenty of time for that,” the queen said, taking a sip of wine and cocking an eyebrow. “Although I was hoping to meet my grand-nephew first, perhaps?”

Sansa froze in her place.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in.

“Certainly, your grace,” Jon answered, leaning forward so he could see the two of them. “Although I am afraid he is already asleep by now, so perhaps after your visit to the gardens?”

The queen offered a large smile to her nephew. Sansa’s heart twisted even more, and she was sure her throat no longer worked properly, for she could not speak.

Robb. Not Robb.

Sansa shook her head. She was being paranoid. The queen was a young woman with no children of her own, it was only natural she wanted to see her little grand-nephew, after.

Grand-nephew.

It sounded so strange. After all, Daenerys was about just as old as them. She hardly looked like a grandmother. Sansa shook her head again. Fate twisted strange nets around everyone, no matter how great or how small. And everyone sat at that table had lived through one of the oddest periods since a very long time. Kings rising below every rock, children fathered by their one uncles, giants below the Wall, not a single Stark at Winterfell…

Perhaps she could accept that Daenerys just wanted to see Jon’s son, without any other agenda than meeting the other half of her kin still alive. For Jon, Robb and her own sake, Sansa decided she would give the queen a chance to prove that she and Jon had worried without need.

“I think he will be more than honoured that you want to meet him, your grace,” Sansa said, forcing a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm so sorry for the delay and that this feels a little bit like a filling chapter, but I'm not in a very happy place at the moment, and if I'm not that okay writing usually does not happen. Maybe I won't update for a couple of days, maybe tomorrow I feel absolutely great and post another chapter as usual.  
> Anyway, thank you so much for all your comments!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! I'm back!  
> First of all, thanks everyone for your kind words, I'll try to answer everyone individually because I love you all and you are too kind and always brighten my day.  
> Anyway, it was just that there was a problem with my scholarship and although I graduate from college this June if I don't pay my tuition they are going to cancel my grades from this year. And now I'm in this sort of limbo where I don't know if I'm gonna get it or not and that is consuming 99% of my brain right now.  
> Although today I was feeling better and decided to finish this chapter. So thanks you so much everyone, for making me forget about my problems!

Sansa hid her face in the pillow, soaking the linen with her tears. She had pretended to be fine. Just fine. A fine smile on her face, a fine softness in her eyes. Both carefully studied through years of hard practice. It was the best mask she wore, one that sometimes even fooled herself.

The only one she had learnt she had to put on from time to time in front of Jon, if that meant she was protecting him.

She bit the inside of her cheeks hard, muffling a sob, her whole body trembling with the effort. Jon could not know. He would worry too, if he knew, and Sansa had to be strong. For them both. For Robb. She could not always count on Jon to be their shield, she had to give him some rest as well.

And the queen was Jon’s aunt. That was a heavy enough burden for him to carry without having to concern himself with his paranoid wife.

For she was paranoid, indeed. The queen had given her no reason to suspect she wished them any harm. Then why was Sansa’s heart twisted in such a tight knot on her chest? Why did she feel like someone had shoved a stone inside her throat?

Robb was blissfully quiet, for once, and her nerves were keeping her awake for what felt like an eternity by now.

The worst part was not knowing what to expect.

If the queen had told her from the start that she was naming either Jon or Robb her heir, then Sansa would have already planned all the next steps to deny Daenerys what technically was hers by right.

But the queen had said nothing, either because there was nothing to say or because she was better at this game than Sansa.

“Why would she name me her heir when she thought I was not even enough to marry you in the first place?” Jon had offered, as soon as they had come back to their chambers, Sansa pressing Robb against her chest so hard that he might as well cross her own ribs.

Because she is a desperate woman now.

Sansa had thought that, but she kept the words in her head. If Jon was not upset about it at least one of them could pretend everything was fine for a little longer.

As her husband had laid his head on his own pillow Sansa had stayed next to Robb’s crib, like a silent guardian of old stories. Like she was trying to keep the witch’s claws away from her firstborn. Jon had called her to bed, though, and after the third time she knew she could not keep acting like a lunatic.

However, he had fallen asleep almost straight away and she had not, tossing and turning and drenching the pillow.

Her sobs subdued somewhat, perhaps because her body was already tired of crying and shivering. Her eyes and cheeks burned as if she had spent all night too close to the hearth. By morning, she would have to conceal the tracks of how she had spent the night, and she could not just blame it on Robb, so peaceful in his corner, or Jon, just as quiet right next to her.

She stretched her hand, reaching for her husband and pressing her chest against his back. Jon grunted and turned around, his arms encircling her without him truly waking up. Sansa buried her nose on his skin, inhaling his scent. It was so familiar, like Jon’s body was just an extension of her own. He smelled like home. Like peace and safety. He always had, ever since she had hugged him for the first time in years.

Ever since Jon had been by her side nothing bad had ever happened again.

She hoped it would not start now.

“Love?”

Sansa almost jumped out of her skin. He was awake after all.

“Sansa?” he called again, brushing his nose on her neck. “What’s wrong, love?”

She would not cry. She had promised herself she would not cry in front of him.

Jon had worries of his own, after all. If the queen asked him to go to King’s Landing with her Sansa would lose him. But Jon was the one that would have to go.

He gently kissed her neck, rubbing her cheek with his thumb.

“Love? I know you can’t sleep, just tell me what’s wrong.”

Sansa’s pulse thrummed in her ears and she felt dizzy, like the bed was a small boat trying to sail through a turbulence. She could not spell it out. She could not put it to words. It would hurt his feelings.

“I thought we were honest with each other, Sansa,” he said flatly.

“We are,” she whispered, gathering all her courage to add “If she asks you to, will you go with her?”

She did not want to hear the answer. It was not fair of Sansa to even ask it to him. Jon might be Prince Rhaeger’s bastard son, but his true father would always be Eddard Stark. He was a man of honour, of duty, just like her lord father had been.

Strange, how Jon embodied so well the words of a woman who had always loathed him throughout all her life. Family. Duty. Honour. By that order.

So of course he would be thorn, if the queen truly asked him to follow her. Jon had his family in Winterfell, his whole life in the North. He would never leave them. But perhaps he had a duty with his aunt after all, a woman incapable of producing her own heir. Perhaps he had a duty with his kingdom.

Finally, when she thought he was so mad she would not get her answer, Jon sighed and held her even tighter, running his large hands up and down her spine.

“Love, I would… I could never”

“That does not mean you will not, does it?” she spat.

“Sansa, let’s just try to get some sleep,” he commanded, stroking her hair. “We already talked about this. If. If the queen wants me as her heir. If. If she does, I won’t leave you. You or Robb. I can’t. My place is with you. If she names me her heir I’m afraid we’ll hold court at Winterfell after her death or something. Or with a little bit of luck I die before her.”

“Do not ever say that again!” Sansa reproached, her eyes filling with tears once more.

Jon shrugged.

“What? I already died once. Hey, maybe I don’t even apply for heir, since I technically died before the queen,” he tried to joke.

“That would leave Robb,” Sansa reminded him.

“Well, then, let’s go to sleep, for that is quite an easy choice. My son stays. That, of course, if she came to talk about her heir. Perhaps she is already pregnant and we don’t even know. Or perhaps she will name Tyrion Lannister her heir, who knows?” Jon suggested, brushing a stray hair from her face. “Or maybe I was right all along and this is all about the glass gardens after all.”

She smiled, somewhat more at ease after speaking with him.

That was it. Neither her husband nor her son would leave her side.

Nestling her head on her husband’s chest, Sansa closed her eyes and let herself drift to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reading previous chapters and I'm aware there's plenty of misspelled words, I'll try to correct them as soon as I can. Sorry.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! So here's another chapter.  
> Thank you so much for your kind messages, they have brighten my days more than I can put to words (especially my mornings - that's when I check the comments, usually when I wake up). Love you all, and wish you all everything that is good in this world, because you are all wonderful people that deserve the best.  
> Anyway, the thing with the scholarship is not solved just yet, but I already figured out a plan B, a plan C, a plan D and a plan E, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed and in the next few days hope to write something a little sweeter (and smuter) for this two, so don't worry!  
> So thanks again and hope you enjoy.

The queen had been impressed. She had given a speech on the courtyard, congratulating the people of Winterfell for their hard work and thanking their invaluable contribution to the prosperity of the realm. It had been a good speech, although somewhat improvised, but full of passion.

But somehow no one had quite applauded with the enthusiasm one might expect, and that was enough for Sansa’s head to spin and knot around itself, forming a thousand different meanings for that, even though she knew the real reason for such coldness towards the queen. It had been after a southerner ruler’s visit that everything had started to fall apart in the North. And even then at least King Robert had been a well-known lifelong friend of the Lord of Winterfell.

This time was different. After that, and especially after Robb’s birth, the Northerners wanted their own ruler, not some random queen from below the Neck and across the Narrow Sea, no matter how much she tried to sweeten their hearts with honey-coated words.

For Sansa it was just the same. Daenerys had been nothing less than kind and polite. Until then, she had never denied Lady Sansa a single request. The queen had been more than understanding about Jon and Sansa’s wish to marry each other, stepping aside as soon as it proved necessary, not even trying to insist Sansa married some lord.

However, something was not quite right with the queen. As to what in particular Sansa could not point her own finger just yet.

“Can I see your son now, Lady Stark?” the queen asked, hooking her arm on Sansa’s.

Sansa shivered, surprised by such a sudden familiarity, although she kept her poise almost impeccably. Behind them, she heard Jon’s strong voice. Something about the Umbers and their lands. Then Lord Lorent’s more melodic one, but she could not quite grasp the words.

“I hope I am not intruding where I do not belong to,” Daenerys said, frowning, although she kept a half smile on her lips.

“Of course not, your grace!” Sansa assured her, even though she thought otherwise. “We are family, after all. Are we not?”

Now she was trying too hard. Perhaps she was not as good at this game as she thought she was.

“Yes, you are absolutely right!” the queen agreed, a full smile lighting up her face. “We are. You do not know how happy that makes me.”

As they entered the great hall, Sansa took off her cloak and gave it to Jocelyn, asking for Robb to be brought to them. The queen left her cloak unceremoniously on the back of a chair and took a seat by the fire.

“What makes you happy, your grace?” Sansa asked, sitting next to the queen.

Her heart raced in her chest, thinking about the moment the Dragon Queen would lay eyes on her son, her claws clasping and wishing she could take him away. Sansa tried to remain calm. The queen had said nothing wrong. They were having just a normal conversation, or at least as normal as a queen and a lady could have.

“Finally having a family, in a way,” the queen sighed. “I know, I know. Jon and I just share some blood and that is hardly enough. The gods know it was not enough for my brother, after all.”

Sansa shivered, recalling the tales about the Beggar King that had crossed the sea. The queen’s husband, some Khal, had dropped an entire pot of gold on Visearys’ head while his sister had not even batted an eye.

Now that Sansa thought about it, perhaps her fear of the queen had started when she first had heard that story in particular. No sane woman would be that heartless towards her brother.

Although he had sold her to the Dothraki. Maybe he deserved that treatment after all.

Sansa looked across the room, her eyes searching for Jon. He was leaning against the table on the dais, currently pouring some wine to Lorent’s cup. She could not hear what they were talking about.

“Oh, but is he not the most precious thing!” the queen cried out.

Sansa turned around. Jocelyn had come back, with Robb twisting and turning in her arms, his pudgy arms reaching out for his mother. Her heart leapt to her throat and it would jump out of her mouth anytime now.

She then noticed both Ghost and Lemon on Jocelyn’s heel, and somehow she felt that offered some further protection against the queen.

“Can I hold him?” Daenerys asked, already getting up and pulling Robb to her arms.

Sansa tried her best not to cringe. Her mask. She had her mask for something, after all. It was just a matter of using it, so she forced the best smile she had, nodding at the queen.

However, Lemon in particular did not seem so convinced of the queen’s harmlessness. She paced around her, sniffing the hem of Daenerys skirt. If the queen was bothered by it or at least noticed it, she said nothing, her lilac eyes too absorbed on Robb in her arms. Lemon snarled, and Sansa swore the way the wolf’s lips had curled was almost the same as her own would if she was not so focussed of keeping her composure.

“Lemon, enough,” Sansa admonished, raising her hand. Ghost, already sitting down at Sansa’s feet, silently guarding Robb with his red gaze, raised his ears, alarmed. Lemon obeyed almost instantly, lying down with a small huff right next to the other direwolf.

“Oh, hello!” the queen greeted, in a weirdly high pitched tone, when Robb finally stopped contorting in her arms in search for one of his parents and focused on her face instead. “Hello, Robb!”

Sansa thought she was about to pass out, her mouth dry, her palms sweating profusely and her temples throbbing as if someone was hammering her head. She glanced at Jon and he shook his head, a half smile on his face. Calm yourself. Do not worry. It will be just fine.

“You know,” Daenerys said, sitting Robb on her knee and circling his waist with her arm, like she was used to small children. Sansa doubted she was, nevertheless. “I always thought about Drogo, Rhaego and Viseryon as my children.”

“They call you ‘Mother of Dragons’ for a reason, your grace,” Sansa said, shrugging, her eyes dancing from the queen’s to Robb sitting too quietly in her lap to the wolves at her feet. It was… Reassuring, to say the least, to have both of them there. Perhaps that would remind the queen where she really was and who really mattered there.

Daenerys laughed at her comment, caressing Robb’s curls at the same time.

“You must know, Lady Stark, that it is not quite the same. For instance, a dragon cannot inherit a kingdom, while your son will one day inherit your land.”

Before Sansa could say anything, Jon was behind her back, his strong hand on her shoulder, grounding her to earth.

Please, please, please, let her not say it. Let her not speak about it. Not with their son caged in her arms.

“You are still young, your grace,” Jon pointed out, a tiny note of uncertainty in his voice that no one besides Sansa would be able to notice. The same she heard every time he reminded them both he was just a bastard. “I am sure in due time-“

“Let us not speak of that just yet. Not with the little one here, at least.” Daenerys cut, her smile gone, passing Robb to Sansa’s arms. She grabbed him and pressed her son against her chest, too eager to apprehend the scent of his hair after those long moments of terror.

He was there. He was there, in her arms, his tiny heart beating against her own. And he would never leave her, nor would she let him go. If the queen wanted an heir she could just make one of her own.

But then Daenerys words finally sank in, Jon’s hand closing on Sansa’s shoulder, pressing harder than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, I don't know how many chapters this is gonna have but it is definitely going somewhere, so stay with me, okay? And also I will have the next month kinda free from Uni stuff so let's hope there will be some more writing around here.


	12. Chapter 12

“Sansa…”

No. No. No, no, no. No.

“Sansa!” Jon shouted out this time, clapping his hands as if that would bring her back from whatever form of catatonia she was in at the moment. “Stop! Just stop!”

She almost jumped off her skin, halting halfway between the door and the window, a path she had paced at least a thousand times by now, her son near suffocating against her breast, crying from the top of his lungs. Hot tears burned her face and her body was convulsing with her sobs but she could not stop. She would not stop.

“No!” she roared, something deep inside her growling with hate and fear. “I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell!”

Jon crossed the room and grabbed her shoulders, his grey eyes filled with impatience, his hands heavy on her.

“You are. No one needs to be reminded of that,” he said, between his teeth.

He was angry. She had made him angry. How would he stay with her if she had angered him?

Robb was still crying in her arms, unconsolable. She knew she had to loosen her arms around her son, that she was hurting him for sure, but she could not.

“She needs to be reminded of that!” Sansa screeched, opening her eyes so wide she was certain they would fall from her face. “Why didn’t I listen to my people? I could be the Queen in the North by now and she would not have come here! She would not take my son!”

Robb cried a little louder, slapping her shoulder as he tried to free himself from her grip.

“Good gods, Sansa, at least give him to me!” Jon begged, reaching for his son. Sansa offered no resistance.

She sloshed to the floor, hiding her face between her knees, shrinking herself as much as she could.

She wanted to disappear. No, she wanted the queen to disappear. To just go away and let them be happy amongst the cold and the snow Daenerys hated so much, sheltered by the people that loved them, and only them.

“Now, love, that is enough...” Jon whispered, kneeling in front of her as he stroked Robb’s hair, trying to calm him.

“And now I am a terrible mother as well!” Sansa shrieked, lifting her face. Gods, she must look hideous, with snot running from her nose and almost reaching her mouth. She cleaned her face with the back of her hand, snivelling like a lowborn woman.

Her lady mother would be so proud of her!

“You are not, you are just scared. Gods, I am scared too!” Jon said, rubbing her knee and forcing a smile. “I never knew this kind of love could even exist, and now that it can be taken away…”

“No. No! No one is going to take it away!” she vowed, cupping his face between her hands, her eyes fixed on his. “I made a promise. You made a promise. She won’t take it away.”

“Sansa, she can’t. Robb his just a baby, he cannot even stand up. What use does she have for a baby, after all?” Jon tried, turning his face to kiss the palm of her hand. “Did you perhaps think that even if she wants to take him to King’s Landing it would be wiser of her to wait?”

Sansa frowned, her thoughts freezing in her head.

Why had she not thought of it? Was she not the smartest of them?

“You mean… You mean that perhaps we have some years yet?” she suggested, a spark of hope igniting in her chest? “That she will wait some time? And then perhaps she will have an heir of her own flesh and blood and leave Robb alone?”

Jon nodded. A smile spread across her face, even though she had reminded herself not to hope too much. Hope had hurt her over and over again in the past.

But then again, hope had led her to Jon. Hope had brought her son to this world. Perhaps there was nothing wrong with hope, after all. It was all she had right now to keep her from going mad.

She leaned forward and kissed her husband’s lips, part of the weight lifted from her shoulders.

* * *

Of course her worries would not leave her alone.

What if instead of Robb, Daenerys decided to name Jon her heir?

Sansa looked at the canopy, the first rays of dawn passing through the curtains and painting soft silvery ribbons on the furs. Jon was gently snoring by her side, his pale shoulders rising and falling with his breath, his dark hair tousled against the pillow.

Was she going mad after all?

Why on earth would the queen name Jon her heir when she did not even had the courtesy of legitimizing him, not even after he had married the Lady of Winterfell? Well, by the same logic, Robb could not be her heir either, no more than a son of a bastard from the North and its warden, both completely out of the line of succession to the Iron Throne.

Perhaps the queen had not wished to speak of children in front of Robb because it reminded her that she could not have children. Perhaps it had nothing to do with them or her heirs, after all.

She got up, accepting the fact that she would not fall asleep again. Robb was sleeping just as peacefully as his father, his small blanket crumpled in his wrist. Maybe with all the mess around him Robb had decided to sleep all night and at least give that small relieve to his parents. Sansa smiled, leaning down to caress his soft cheek.

They had taken everything away from her. Her wolf, her lord father, her sister, her lady mother, her three brothers, her household, her name, her dignity. And she had picked up all the pieces the best she could, she had put herself together the best she knew how. She had gone to Jon broken and empty and weak.

She was not that girl anymore. She was Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.

With that in mind, she reached for her best dress, hidden behind the ones she usually wore, the ones that looked like her daily uniform.

She could have been the Queen in the North. Everyone might as well be reminded of that.


	13. Chapter 13

Jon’s eyes landed on her. His jaw would probably have fallen if it had not been attached to his head.

Lord Lorent said something she did not really heard, but Sansa was aware that she was expect to laugh, so she did as loudly as she could without sounding like she was trying too hard.

It was a dangerous game, the one she was playing. But it was one she knew too well how to, the one that had kept her alive all those years away from home. She could play it again. She had done so before and lived to tell the tale.

Her husband took his seat at the table, this time at her right, as he should. Sansa had occupied her chair, since the queen had not came down just yet and that gave her the perfect excuse to sit as the Lady of Winterfell and not just some guest of honour in her own house.

“Oh, good morning, dear!” she greeted, grinning at Jon. “Lord Lorent was just telling me the funniest story.”

“Was he, now?” Jon scoffed, picking up his cup.

“I was not, I assure you. Lady Sansa is just kind enough to laugh of my silly jokes, that is all,” Lord Lorent said, waving his hand in the air.

Sansa laid her hand on his shoulder, giving the queen’s husband her best smile.

“And your wife, the queen, Lord Lorent?” Jon asked, even though he was still chewing his bread. Sansa slapped his arm, trying to warn him, but he simply ignored her.

Lord Lorent shrugged, taking a sip from his own cup.

“I suppose she is still asleep,” he said, simply.

Jon raised an eyebrow, and then looked at his wife.

“So you do not know?” Jon insisted.

Sansa blushed furiously.

Stop. Stop! He was ruining everything.

She was trying so hard to gain Lord Lorent’s favour, hoping he could shift the queen’s opinion in a way that was more according to Sansa’s wishes, and Jon was going to ruin it just because he was jealous or something?

Well, that was partly her fault, after all.

Lorent did not answer.

“I am not surprised the queen is not pregnant yet,” Jon whispered on his wife’s ear. “Do you think he knows how babies are made? Shall I tell him?”

“Jon, please, do not be rude!” Sansa admonished, slapping his leg.

Jon lowered his eyes, like a boy caught stealing apples from the kitchen. That look almost melted her heart, but she had to keep going. She needed to do this for them.

“I am sorry, but I cannot,” he whispered again, still looking at his plate. “Not while you are wearing that dress, at least. Where did you find it?”

She smiled, genuinely smiled this time.

At least part of her plan had worked.

“I just wanted to wear something special today, that is all,” Sansa said. “Since we have such important guests with us.”

It was special indeed. A brocaded silvery-grey dress, with white fur around the collar and the cuffs. Her colours and his colours both. She had been sewing it for quite some time now, perhaps a couple of moons after Robb’s birth, when she had recovered part of her previous figure. It was the most beautiful dress she had now, made when Sansa felt she was worthy of pretty things again and that they would not make her look shallow or insensible. Most of all, that no one would hurt her because of it.

Jon had only seen her in the plain dresses she wore for her job as Lady of Winterfell. Even her wedding dress had been dull compared to what she had favoured… Before. But she was indeed the Lady of Winterfell, and she could have been the Queen in the North. Although for her people plain dresses with some direwolf emblazoned might do the trick, Sansa thought that a southerner queen needed something more familiar. Brocades and furs. And, after all, she had been saving the garment for something special, which was the case.

“Lady Sansa,” the queen greeted, as soon as she entered the great hall. “Might I have a word with you in private?”

* * *

Please. Please.

She repeated those words again and again in her head, her heart pounding in her chest.

Daenerys was a cruel queen indeed, not even allowing Sansa to have Jon by her side when she finally cast the blow. Now she would have to face it alone. She would have to listen to the queen saying she would take away someone Sansa loved with no one to hold her hand.

And all of that before the Dragon Queen had even broken her fast.

They walked through the corridors in silence, Sansa leading the way to her study, the queen right behind her. At some point, Sansa was not sure exactly when, Lemon had appeared at her side and decided to remain so. That gave Sansa some strength, knowing she had a companion that would stay with her through the worst of it all.

To her relieve, Daenerys said nothing against it. Perhaps she thought the wolf was just a pet, incapable of hurting her. Perhaps she thought the blood of the dragon was stronger than the blood of a wolf.

They shall figure it out soon enough.

Sansa opened the door to the study, holding it open for the queen. A cloud of silver hair passed below her nose, filling her nostrils with something close to the smell of ash and smoke.

“I know you are afraid of me,” Daenerys said, as soon as Sansa closed the door behind her.

“Your grace?” Sansa asked, her back as straight as possible and her hands neatly folded in front of her. She had put her mask on again. Calm, calm like a frozen lake in winter.

“Sit down,” the queen ordered, gesturing to the chair in front of the desk and occupying what was usually Sansa’s place. Again. “Do not try to play games with me, Lady Stark. Do you think I have crossed the Narrow Sea and conquered my home again by losing those games you like to play?”

Sansa gulped.

So this was how it was going to be. No tricks, no sweet words. Just the truth, plain and simple. Sansa was not very good at that game. Seldom did she win by using honesty alone. Gods, she had not arrive at where she stood without her own handful of lies and plots.

She never lied to Jon, though, or at least she preferred not to. And Daenerys was his blood. Perhaps honesty would work on her too, after all.

“I know you are afraid of me. I know you loathe me ever since I asked you to marry someone that was not my nephew,” the queen continued, her face without expression as she crossed her arms at her chest, leaning back on the chair.

“As I recall, you asked me to marry someone from my sworn houses, your grace,” Sansa corrected.

“Which can be perfectly summed as someone who was not Lord Snow, am I right?” Daenerys cut, although her face did not change a bit, just the tone of her voice.

Sansa caressed Lemon’s head, her throat almost closing itself, as sweat run down her spine. That was a dangerous path they were threading, one that could end up terribly for Sansa and the ones she loved.

“And as I recall it, you wrote me a splendid letter praising all your now husband’s virtues that was answered the way you wished, I think, for now I understand you are happily married and with a healthy son that fills you both with joy. Am I correct?” the dragon queen asked, leaning forward and propping her hands on the desk.

Sansa gulped again.

“You are, your grace.”

Daenerys closed her eyes and sighed, like she was trying to understand something really difficult to grasp.

“Then why on this earth would you think I would do anything against you, just out of spite, when I could have done so much easier before?” she asked.

Sansa’s eyes filled with tears, her ribs collapsing around her, suffocating her.

It reminded her too much of Littlefinger, of Cersei, and all the others that had made her feel stupid all those years. She had thought she was clever, that she had outsmarted everyone, just to be reminded by someone a couple of years older than her that she actually was not.

“I had not made Jon my heir before he married you, when it would have been simpler. Then I could have just asked you to marry him, or him to marry you, and assure I had the North under my wing.” Daenerys continued, her voice as cold as snow. “But I did not. And I could have asked him to come to King’s Landing instead of staying here with you, but I did not. And now you think that I have some twisted plan to take your son, just a baby boy at his mother’s breast?”

Sansa could not hold back her tears anymore. Her body convulsed with a sob, as she hid her face in her hands. Lemon propped her head on Sansa’s lap, whining to call her attention, but Sansa could not react.

Why was not Jon with her? That was not fair! That was cruel, just cruel. Just like when Cersei humiliated her, called her a silly little girl, with no one there but Sansa herself to tell her to shut up and leave her alone.

“We are not that different, you and I,” the queen said, relentless, as if thirsty for blood. “We were sold against our wishes, we did our best to spin things our way, to conquer back what was ours by right. I could not let a bastard nephew take that away from me, just as you did not let a bastard cousin take your seat.”

“I am nothing like you!” Sansa spat, leaning forward as well, her eyes matching the queen’s, although Sansa’s were certainly filled with hate and fury. Daenerys’s were just empty. “And do not call my husband a bastard!”

“Do not forget your place, Lady Stark!” the queen demanded, her voice not quite so calm now. “And let us not deceive ourselves here, shall we? Jon is a bastard, always was. But that does not mean he is any less of a man. It was you who convinced me of that, remember?”

Sansa crushed her tears with the palms of her hands, sniffing as she straightened her back once again.

“He is a bastard and therefore, as much as we like to think Jon and I are kin, that is not quite the case, at least legally speaking,” Daenerys explained, her voice steady again. “So I cannot make him my heir, and that makes it illegal for me to name your son as my successor.”

Sansa froze.

Did she just hear what she heard?

“I understand your fear, Lady Stark. In a way I think I do,” the queen offered, reaching for her hand across the desk. Sansa did not resist.

“Then why did you come here? I cannot believe you just wanted to see the gardens. I cannot believe our first meeting was just because of some silly glass houses,” Sansa said, shaking her head.

She felt hollow. Relieved, but hollow, like she had been filling herself with all the worry and paranoia and now the queen had taken it all away at once.

“You are right.” Daenerys crystal laughter echoed on the stone walls as she stroked Sansa’s fingers. “As you know, I do not have children of my own, and everyone knows that what I might feel one day for my husband will just be a shadow of what you and my nephew have. But Jon is the last for me too, Lady Stark, as much as he was to you. A bastard son of a brother I never knew, a bastard son of an aunt you never knew. And you must know how difficult it is to carry on without your own by your side.”

Sansa forced a smile, trying to show some emotion. Any emotion, really.

“My lord father once told me,” she started, looking the queen in the eye again. “That when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Perhaps it will be the same for us, after all.”

“I sure hope so, Lady Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So somehow I started to write this and got a little bit carried away. I hope everyone's questions are somewhat solved with this chapter and I promise it will not be this angsty from now on.  
> Thank you so much!


	14. Chapter 14

She threw herself in his arms, crying and laughing at the same time, almost knocking him down over the lettuces. He held her close, although his arms were stiff around her, like he was not sure of what exactly was happening and she was not saying anything either.

Gods, it had been like piercing through the ice ceiling of a lake and being able to breathe again. Like finding a clear stream of fresh water after days under the scalding sun. Like seeing Jon again after many years without someone who truly cared for her. She would thank all the gods, the old gods, the Seven, the Lord of Light, the Drowned God, the horse god, the Great Shepard… Any god who cared to listen to her prayers, really.

Her boy! Her beautiful boy was safe! And her beautiful husband as well. They would be happy now, forever. Nobody could take anything away from them, now that even the queen herself was at their side.

“Will you please tell me what happened, first?” Jon asked, cupping her face and pushing her away before Sansa could kiss him.

She half-snorted, half-giggled. He was right, poor thing!

As soon as the queen had left the study Sansa had run down the stairs in search for her husband, and Cregan had informed her he was in the glass gardens again with Lord Lorent, who seemed to have develop some sort of strange fascination with them. Somehow, the queen’s husband had disappeared, perhaps after she run to her husband’s arms, thinking that three indeed made quite a crowd.

“Everything is fine, Robb stays, you stay,” Sansa said, stumbling in her own words as she grabbed Jon’s neck and pulled him down for a kiss.

Perhaps calling it a kiss was not exactly appropriate, for a mess of lips and tongues and teeth.

Everything was fine indeed, even though she knew that outside the glass walls there were other people. People that in a moment would be whispering about how improper their lady was, attacking her own husband in plain sight, in broad daylight.

Well, people were just lucky they both still had their clothes on, after all.

Jon pushed her away again, frowning.

“Sansa, stop!” he demanded, his hands firmly grasping her shoulders and keeping her at arm’s length. “Stop! I am not understanding a thing you say! What happened exactly?”

Sansa sighed, disappointed. It seemed she would have to tell him all the story first, after all.

“Somehow she knew I feared she would take Robb away and told me that was not going to happen,” she said, trying to explain it as fast as she could and get done with it. “Legally it cannot, for you are not a Targaryen, so neither is he. And then she said something about you being the last for her as well and then we somehow agreed to be on the same side.”

“So now she is not a monster under our bed?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh no! Not at the moment, at least," Sansa added, grinning.

Jon smashed his lips to hers then, pressing his large hands on the small of her back and bringing her the closest it was humanly possible. Her whole body hummed deliciously with relieve and anticipation at the same time. It had been a while since she had been in his arms, not worrying with anything more serious than if Robb was in the same room or if anyone in the castle could hear them.

“Where’s Robb?” Jon asked, his voice cracked as he gasped for air.

“I don’t know, dear. I haven’t seen him since I got up,” she answered, twice as breathless. “Where did you leave him?”

“I left him with Alys this time.”

Poor Alys! First she had taken care of Jon and Sansa, and now she was stuck with their son. Would her task never end? Well, perhaps after she was married. By then she would surely have to dedicate herself to her own family.

“Then he must still be with her. Shall we go find him?” Sansa suggested, although she was not too kin on the idea at the moment. Robb was safe, after all.

“No, I don’t think so. I would rather we went to our chambers,” Jon said, throwing his arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his side. “We have… Important matters to discuss.”

“Of course, Lord Snow!” she agreed, her arm around his waist as they crossed the courtyard.

* * *

“Let me just tell that although I now understand what you were doing,” Jon started, sitting on the bed and taking of his boots. “I did not like one bit those smiles with Lorent, even less when you look like that.”

“Like what?” Sansa asked, cocking an eyebrow at him after shutting the door behind her.

Jon stood up and crossed the room, pulling her to him by the waist as his eyes jumped from her face to her neckline.

“Oh, I see…” Sansa whispered almost against his lips. “Were you jealous?”

Jon nodded, his eyes still on her chest.

“You see, dear,” she said, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look her in the eyes again. “And please do not hate me for it, but that was exactly my point.”

She flinched, afraid of what his next words might be.

Jon let his hands fall to his sides, his brow furrowed as his eyes now searching her face for… something.

He was mad. Gods, she had made him mad.

“And why exactly did you want to make me jealous?” Jon asked, his voice dangerously low.

“You see, at first I didn’t want to. I just wanted everyone to see I could have been queen too,” she explained, twisting her fingers. Why did she had to tell him that? “But then I found Lord Lorent alone in the great hall and thought that perhaps I could win his favour and make him change the queen’s decision.”

“A decision she had not made, as it turns out,” Jon scoffed, crossing his arms at his chest.

“Yes, yes, I am aware of that now,” Sansa mumbled. “But I had also thought that if she waved a throne under your nose-”

“I would leave?” Jon cut her, his grey eyes cold as steel, his voice as unkind as she had ever heard it. “Did you think I would leave you? Did you think I would leave my son?”

She closed her eyes, sighing. She knew it had been foolish of her. And she knew it would have been much easier just not telling him about it.

But now it was too late.

“I thought… Gods, I know I was wrong, and I am sorry!” she almost begged, reaching for his hand. At least he did not tried to pull it from her. “But you know that it is still hard for me to believe that man as good as you would chose to be with a broken woman like me. I know you do. I know. But sometimes I just don’t believe it.”

Jon said nothing, his eyes too interested on the wooden floor.

“And then you were too jealous and you almost ruined everything. Well, I almost ruined everything, but I just wanted you to remember why you wanted me in the first place,” she continued, something inside her nose itching as she tried to keep her voice calm.

“Sansa,” Jon whispered, his eyes filled with sadness as he looked at her, frowning. “If that is why you think I have stayed by your side for so long then you could not be more wrong.”

“I know, dear, I know!” She rushed the words from her mouth, her free hand caressing his beard as tears pooled on her eyes. “I know, but sometimes I cannot believe it. Sometimes when I am scared someone will take it away, just like it happened before, I cannot believe that you will stay. But I know you will. Does it make any sense?”

Jon kissed the palm of her hand, relieve washing through Sansa’s body as he did.

“It does not, love. But I understand,” he assured her. “Although perhaps it is better if I am the one reminding you of a thing or two now.”

In a heartbeat Jon’s lips were on hers, his hands gripping her thighs as she wrapped them around his waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yep, that is kind of a cliffhanger because enough of people suffering already.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so so so sorry about the delay, everyone!  
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter and I *guess* there will be two more left yet.

She run her hands through his hair, letting his soft curls, softer than the most expensive silk she had ever touched, tickle her fingers. Jon’s mouth had found that spot on her neck he liked so much, gently scraping it with his teeth. He had hooked his arms around her thighs, holding her up against the stone wall, his hips deliciously pressing her middle.

Gods, what would have become of her without him?

“Do you believe it now, Sansa?” he grunted against her skin, making her shudder and hold on to his shoulders before she could fall. “Do you believe that I need you, more than anything in the world?”

Sansa did not answer. She could not. She knew he was telling the truth and she knew one day she would believe him without having to tell the voices inside her head to shut up and leave her alone. One day she was sure she would, just like she had entered her old lord father chambers and felt nothing but joy, just like she had kissed and touched Jon and could not think of anything but him. One day she would be able to look at her husband, at her son, at the tall towers of Winterfell, and believe that would not be taken away from her.

But right now, if she wanted to be happy with what she had right now, Sansa still needed to force herself to forget it. So she framed his face with her hands, the tips of her fingers gently coaxing him to her, and crushed her lips to Jon’s. Because she loved him, and she would never leave him, just like she had promised.

He groaned into her mouth as Sansa sucked and bit his lower lip, like she was claiming his mouth as hers and only hers. His perfect, wicked mouth that turned her head to mash and made her knees weak. His fingers dug in the tender skin of her thighs and she pressed herself against him even more, shifting her hips so she could feel his erection against her core. Jon threw his head back, parting his lips from hers, and their moans echoed on the stone.

“Gods, love,” he mumbled, circling her waist with his arm and holding her tight against him as his free hand started to fumble with the laces at her back.

Sansa held on to his shoulders, his muscles tense under her touch, and arched her back so she could support her weight on her bottom against the wall and allow him some space to unlace her dress at the same time. It still amazed her how strong he was, although his body seemed so lithe and nimble when he fought. But not as delicate as the boys she used to dream about as a girl.

Definitely nothing like Lorent.

“How could I ever, ever, ever, spare a thought for the queen’s husband while sharing a roof with a man like you, Jon?” she whispered, scrapping her teeth against his jaw. It was a silly thing to say, and she felt her face burn, ashamed. But somehow she had felt that saying those words only in her head would not have the same effect. Jon needed to know.

“You can’t scold me for that one!” he snapped, with ragged breath, angling his head to let her explore his neck with her tongue. “I once told you you were my world, Sansa. And yet here we are because you were afraid I could bear leaving you.”

Jon yanked awkwardly at the shoulders of her dress, only able to use one hand, pulling the sleeves down until they reached her elbows and baring her breasts.

“Now I don’t understand your reasons but your methods sure had some logic to them,” he whispered, lowering his head so he could lay kisses on the tops of her breasts. “You’re so beautiful, so flawless. And you are my wife, Sansa. You’re so much more than I could ever wish.”

She leaned her back on the wall again, the cold stone scratching and chilling her skin. One of her hands slid below Jon’s shirt, exploring the solid muscles of his belly as her fingertips felt every scar she knew by heart by now. One shaped like a half moon just above his left hip. Other like a long pine leaf a little to the right of his belly button. Another, like a hook, where she was sure his heart beat just under his ribs.

She had traced every single one of them with her fingers or with her lips, and he had told her the story of every single one of them, even the ones in his face, hidden behind his beard or between the soft wrinkles that formed in the corner of his eyes when he smiled. Somehow, that was what had finally convinced her that Jon could somehow understand why it was so difficult for her to trust again.

He had been betrayed too.

And somehow, in some twisted, senseless way, they had found trust in each other. Even though it sometimes faltered, it was still there.

He hissed when her short nails brushed against his hip again and Sansa giggled. She knew he was ticklish there. She knew so many things about him now and was certain everyone around her had miserably lied to her. Man did not grow tired of their wives, just as she had not grown tired of Jon, even though there was little to discover about him yet.

She was not scared anymore. Scared about saying something that would make him go away. Scared about not knowing how to kiss him or where to touch him. Scared of doing the wrong thing.

She knew how to turn him into a mess in just a few heartbeats, and that was the most wonderful thing. For instance, she knew he would groan and bite his lips as soon as she touched his cock, even though she did so through the fabric of his breeches.

And he did not disappoint her. He never did.

“Please, Sansa…” he begged, hiding his face in the curve of her neck, sloppily sucking her pulse and raising one of his hands to gently squeeze her breast.

She smirked, throwing her head back as her hand on him slowly went up and down, up and down again until he was so hard she thought he might just spill himself inside his breeches.

“Please,” he groaned against the damp skin of her breastbone. “Please, love.”

Sansa liked him begging. It did funny things to her belly, and it made her even wetter, just for him. Only for him. But she liked him inside her even more, and if she kept on caressing him like that perhaps that would not happen the way she wanted it to.

“Then could you please take me to bed, dear? My back hurts,” she asked, a wide smile creeping on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if anyone has anything against fixing things up with a little bit of some sweet ol' sex, but anyway, it just happens...


	16. Chapter 16

Jon dropped her unceremoniously on the furs, making Sansa giggle even though she wished to scold him for that. He tried to run his fingers through her hair unsuccessfully, for it was still tied tightly in one of those complicated northern braids she favoured so much.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sansa apologized, sitting up and pushing her hair over her shoulder. “I can undo that in a second.”

Jon stopped her before she could reach the first white ribbon, like a long frozen stream amongst her fiery tresses. He grabbed her wrist and brought it to his lips, planting a gentle kiss right where he could feel her pulse.

“Please, let me,” he asked, his other hand sliding on her shoulder until her braid fell back again.

Her body tingled as his tender fingers undid every tie and loop, running slowly through her hair, caressing her scalp. Sansa closed her eyes and leaned against his touch, unable to think about anything but his hands freeing her hair, strand after strand falling to her naked back, tickling her skin.

When he was pleased with his work, Jon shifted Sansa’s hair over her shoulder again and out of his way as he kissed a spot behind her ear, making her shiver.

“I love you so much, Sansa,” he whispered, and he was so close it sounded almost as if his voice was inside her head. “I cannot live without you.”

“I know, dear,” she said, twisting in his arms so she could look him in his eyes, half hidden by his lids. Somehow, she was not lying at all. “I know. And I can’t go on without either. You make me so happy…”

He smiled and kissed her again, his lips impossibly soft and demanding at the same time, his tongue sweeter than the best custard she had ever had. Sweeter than the lemoncakes and lemon-pies the cook baked with lemons from the lemon tree he had offered her.

“Will you let me make you happier, Sansa?” Jon asked, his hands slipping inside the sleeves of her dress and pulling them down.

She nodded, digging her heals and her palms on the mattress, lifting herself, and let Jon ease the dress out of her. She knew she should have felt the cold air bite against her skin, the fire not yet lit and the water from the pipes not enough to warm the room by itself. But somehow she felt nothing besides her hot blood rushing inside her veins, as Jon dragged his hands along her body.

“That was expensive!” she scolded when Jon threw the dress across the room, not really paying much attention to it. “And it costed Alys and me a lot of work too!”

“I’ll become a sellsword and buy you a thousand more, if that would make you happy,” Jon promised, kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed and grabbing the back of her knees.

“No, you won’t!” she forbade, throwing herself forward and pointing her index finger at him. “You promised you would not leave me.”

He ignored her, pulling her to the edge of the bed and peeling her stockings off instead.

“What will it be, then?” Jon asked, his hands sliding up and down her thighs, raising goosebumps on their wake, and gently kissing her ankle. “Shall I stop now to fold your pretty dress, Lady Stark?”

She twined her fingers in his black hair, tugging until she had brought his mouth to her folds.

“You are speaking too much again, Lord Snow.”

Jon gave a throaty laugh, planting his hands on the inside of her thighs to part them even further. He indulged her, his hot tongue swirling around her nub as Sansa became a panting mess, clawing at his hair, at the furs below her, digging her heals on Jon’s shoulders, arching her back so much to press her pelvis ever harder against his face that she thought her spine would break anytime soon. And she would not care. She would not even bother to think about it, as long as Jon’s wicked mouth was on her.

He eased a finger inside her and she moaned so loudly her throat might as well split in two. Sansa covered her face with her arm, her mouth wide open in a desperate search for air as tiny beads of sweat covered her body, one of them sliding down her neck.

“Are you ashamed now, love?” she heard Jon ask, as if he was miles away.

“Don’t stop, please,” Sansa almost begged, propping herself on her elbows and looking at him.

Sansa blushed. He had done it about a thousand times by now, but there was still something impish about seeing her husband’s face buried between her thighs, lapping and sucking as a thirsty man. But she enjoyed it far too much to allow herself to feel the slightest hint of guilt.

She let herself fall back in bed as he crooked his finger in just the right way, rendering her unable to form any coherent thought. Perhaps she had even forgot her own name, as her blood boiled inside her, her pulse hammering her temples and all the muscles in her body tight like a bowstring before the shot.

A hot wave of pleasure washed through her, making her shiver around Jon. She towed at his hair, trying to hold on to something. Jon groaned, although he kept on licking as if he was not yet satisfied.

As Sansa came down, Jon’s tongue became too much for her to bear and she dug her foot on his chest, gently pushing him away. Jon cleaned his face with the back of his hand, but Sansa was still too tired to be embarrassed by it.

“I could never leave you. Not when you taste so sweet,” Jon said, laying by her side and brushing away the strands that had stuck to her face.

Sansa rolled on top of him and kissed him. Sometimes he said some things she was not sure how she should answer to. But she knew they came from a place deep in his heart and she had learned to simply accept them as Jon’s own way to express his love.

“Now it’s your turn, dear, but yet again you have too many clothes on. Why are you always so dressed?” Sansa joked, catching the hem of his shirt. He set up, allowing her to take it off of him. She then unlaced his breeches and slid them out as he raised himself from the mattress on the palms of his hands.

“Lie down,” she commanded, pressing one of her hands on his chest as the other searched for his cock under her.

“Fuck!” Jon hissed, throwing his head back and shutting his eyes as Sansa lowered herself until he was fully sheathed by her heat.

Sansa snapped her hips back and forth, painfully slow at first, but then faster and faster, until they were both panting again. Jon dug his fingers on her hips, somewhat coordinating her movements with his own thrusts.

His chest got up and down too quickly under her palms, his full lips parted as his grey eyes, now almost black, kept fixed on hers. He was close, so close, by the way his movements lost their rhythm and his hands squeezed her skin with enough force to leave a bruise. With a particularly loud groan, he spilled himself deep inside her, pulling Sansa down with him.

She let him catch his breath, nestling herself against his now sticky chest, nuzzling his skin with her nose as his arms crushed her to him. He always smelt so good, no matter what he smelt of. Hearth, or grass, or sweat. But he always smelt like home. Her home.

“Gods, Sansa, why on earth would I ever leave you? Why?” he murmured in her ear, still panting.

And somehow she started to believe, really believe, he would stay with her forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, next chapter will be the last, but of course we'll have part 6 because I need a part 6 (I need baby-Starks, perhaps I need some people to come back, so I need part 6)  
> Anyway, thank you so much for being there!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the last chapter, but of course it's not the end. Hope you enjoy and that it is not a disappointment (because I'm terrible at ending stuff)!

She lifted her eyes again, unable to truly focus on the book or her lap.

It was snowing again, a gentle reminder that winter was already there and that their time of peace, though short, would end soon enough. The White Walkers would cross the wall one of those days, and even though the queen had declared more than once that the kingdom was prepared, the North was not so sure. Jon, above everyone else, doubted they would win that war, and surely that would not happen as easily as the Dragon Queen had promised everyone.

Sansa was not sure what to think just yet. They had prepared themselves as best as they could for the worst they could imagine. Dozens of men from King’s Landing were arriving at the Wall every day. Not just thieves, and rapists, and murderers and forgotten sons. Well-trained men. The kingdom’s finest, some dared to say.

However, when she looked at the floor, just in front of the fire, she could not believe anything like this could be destroyed so easily. Not when even the queen was with them.

Robb was sitting against Ghost’s belly, the direwolf sleeping just as peacefully as Lemon, her grey nose pressed to his and the five fat little pups huddled around her. Jon sat across his son, his legs stretched and crossed at his ankles, the first buttons of his grey shirt open and his sleeves rolled up as he trailed the small cart to his son once more.

It had been a gift from Daenerys to Robb on his second name day, a little dragon made of bronze with wheels, strangely enough. Sansa had not liked it one bit at first, thinking it an attempt to lay claim to her son after all. But then she had forced herself to let go of her suspicions, seeing how much the boy enjoyed his new toy.

Or perhaps her husband enjoyed it more, judging by his loud laughter as Robb leaned himself forward and pushed it to his father with his chubby fingers, giggling just as loud.

A strange pack indeed, the seven wolves and the three of them.

No, that could not go away so easily. Not after how much they had fought for what they had. The pack survives.

“We should give them names, I suppose,” Sansa suggested, looking at the pups. “White, Whitish, Grey One, Grey Two and Grey Three does not seem quite right.”

Jon pushed the little dragon to Robb again.

“Would you like to name them, Robb?” he asked, his eyes wide.

Robb screeched and clapped his hands, completely ignoring his toy. Why the wolves did not wake up was a complete mystery to Sansa.

“But you have to give them sensible names, sweetie,” Sansa advised, smiling.

“You named her Lemon, do not give the boy a lecture about sensible names,” Jon said, shrugging.

“We had this discussion already,” she scoffed, raising her hand dismissively. “Ghost, for a white wolf? How very creative of you, dear.”

Jon stood up, for his son was now far more interested on how to detach one of the wheels than seeing them roll through the ground. He knelt in front of her, his hands gently grabbing her waist as he lowered his head to plant a kiss on her swollen belly.

“And this one? What are we going to call her?” he asked, his eyes impossibly soft as she caressed his hair, smiling back at him.

Jon had always been so gloomy as a boy, his smiles so rare and most of them saved only for Arya, some of them spared to Robb.

But never to Sansa. Never.

And that had been entirely her fault, always remembering everyone around that he was just a bastard and that he was beneath any one of the Stark brothers. She felt he was an insult to her lady mother and because of that she knew she had hurt him more than she could ever had imagined.

But Sansa was just a girl then. She was not a girl anymore. She was not that girl anymore, and that was a good thing, judging by the way he smiled and joked and laughed so often around her now. And if she took into account how careful and caring he was with her, then she could be sure everything had been more than forgiven by now.

“It will be another boy. And I am not discussing names with you again,” she jested in her best patronizing tone, kissing his forehead.

“Why can it not be a girl this time? I am sure Robb prefers a sister, do you not, Robb?”

“Brother!” Robb shouted, raising his arms in the air as a wide smile that showed all of his small teeth spread across his face.

“Life is difficult for girls, Jon,” Sansa whispered, cupping her husband’s face. A sudden sadness had taken her heart, a tight knot closing her throat.

Jon frowned, as if he was trying to fit the pieces of a complicated puzzle inside his head. He raised his hand to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, and somehow it still made her shiver.

“It does not have to be,” he murmured, his grey eyes fixed on hers. “We have a great queen, Winterfell could never wish for a better mistress than you. And there’s Aryanne Martell and Asha Greyjoy. Our kingdom is ruled by women now.”

That did not meant life had been easy to them.

But Sansa knew life on the Wall was not that pleasant either, so she chose to keep quiet. Jon meant well, after all, and she would love a girl just as much. And Sansa would teach her what truly mattered, so she could not be deceived by pretty boys and words filled with honey. Kindness. Honour. Respect.

“I think it is a girl too, this time,” she agreed, leaning against his touch. “And I had thought about Lyarra, like grandmother. Benjen, if it is a boy.”

Jon sighed, saying nothing.

“I mean, if you don’t like them- I like other names better, and I’m sure you do too,” Sansa added, her words bumping against themselves as tears pooled on her eyes. “But I refuse to believe… I won’t, I just won’t, Jon!”

He raised himself and sat at her side, his arms encasing her as he tried to hush her.

“It’s fine, it’s just fine, love. I know.”

Something bumped against her leg.

“Mommy?” Robb called, his head cocked to one side, his bright blue eyes looking at her, filled with fear.

“It’s nothing, sweetie,” Sansa promised, stroking his dark curls and reminding herself they needed a trim. “Come here, everything is fine.”

She picked her son up and sat him on her knee, planting a kiss on his soft cheek. Robb seemed convinced enough, his attention fixed again on his small dragon.

She had so much already. Why would she be anything less than happy, after all?

* * *

It was snowing again. The sun seemed to have gotten tired of shining and there was nothing but snow those days. Weeks? Probably weeks.

Jon was training in the courtyard, this time under a canvas the man had put up on one of the castle walls, and it was funny how over the years it had not became more interesting. But yet Robb seemed more than eager to watch them, his fingers pointing everywhere at once, her grip on his back tighter every passing moment, afraid he might fall down.

But then something caught her eye. A brown horse, with white spots, rode by a short lanky man wrapped in a shabby cloak, passing through the gates and making the men below Sansa stop their sparring.

Sansa flinched, readjusting Robb at her hip. Why had the guards let a stranger pass?

The man dismounted with a swift motion, like he was just made of smoke, or water, or something not quite as solid as flesh and bone.

A moment passed.

Another.

Jon laughed loudly, running to the strange and hugging him thight.

Perhaps a brother from the Nightswatch. Perhaps…

No. No.

It could not be. It could not be!

Sansa pressed Robb against her even more, ignoring his protests, wrapped the hem of her skirt in her fist and shoved it on her belt, not really caring if the dress was ruined or not.

Please! Please! To all the gods who cared to listen, please that her sister had returned home safe and well!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry (not really), it just needed to happen!  
> Thank you so so so much for all your comments, or for just being there in general!


End file.
